Not One Step Back
by Wesker888
Summary: New Heroes. Seminew abilities. Old nemesis. And the same old problems. The alltoo familiar life of a hero. DISCONTINUED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
1. Starting Up Again

**Not One Step Back**

Summery: It's ten years after the events in New York. The old heroes have moved on, and the world has forgotten all that once was. Now, Sylar's back in town. And he's killing again, in a new, more inhumane way. And the only thing standing in his way is a new set of heroes, each one trying to figure out what the hell is going on with them.

Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to NBC. Everything you don't, most likely, it's the result of my twisted, messed-up mind.

Category: We're looking at action/adventure, angst, humor, romance, and, of course, mystery and supernatural

Brought to you by: Wesker888, your residential write-about-whatever-I-feel-like author.

Rating: T for now, mainly for language and stuff. As the story continues, it'll probably be bumped up to M for intense violence.

Author's Notes: This story is the result of what happens when your friends get you into a really kick-ass T.V. show right as it finishes its first season.

I've now seen episodes 1-19 and the finale as of this chapter. And, as what often happens with me, ideas and random thoughts began invading my head until, soon enough, I just had to go and make a story out of them.

My buddy, Silent Dre, currently has a Heroes story with a weird Latin name in the making right now. Some of you may have already read it. If you haven't, there is a direct link to it on my favorite's page. It's the only Heroes one up there.

OK, now with all of that out of the way: this is one of the few stories in which the characters are entirely fictional. I mean, usually, I have one character (mainly me) that's actually a person I know and has allowed me to put them in a story. In this one, all of them are made up…minus Sylar, cause… NBC owns him...yeah.

However, that doesn't mean they aren't based off of a particular person or two. Just not having anything in regards to their real personas… if that makes any sense.

I am going to try my hardest to make up my own original storyline, but I'm afraid that this will stray into certain elements of the 1st season storyline. As the above summery tells, this is after the New York bomb…thingy, but it is not canon with anything that happens after that.

Um…I think that's about it.

So…enjoy.

* * *

The town was, for the most part, dead.

This is an interesting way to begin a story. But then again, this is an interesting story to begin. If someone were to tell you this was a normal story, if someone were too say to you that this was all fluff, no angst or adventure or horror, or even any supernatural mysteries…then, my friend, someone deceived you into opening this book and gazing upon its word-filled pages.

Are you sure you wish to continue? I should warn you beforehand: the story you are about to read is NOT for the faint of heart.

If you so do, then sit back. Relax. Put your reading glasses on. Maybe make yourself a cup of tea.

Just remember: in this story, everything you thought you knew, everything you believed impossible…all of that is a lie.

For what's possible sometimes goes places man really shouldn't go to.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

* * *

The town was, for the most part, dead.

True, it was New York City. The city that never did and never would truly sleep. And it was only 8:00 in the evening, so by no means was everyone asleep. There was at least one light on in every apartment building and hotel. Most small businesses were still open, for at least another hour or more. The nighttime places were booming, with men and women, just getting off from work, going there, to enjoy a drink or to drown in their own merriment.

And yet, it was quiet. Cars were on the road, but it wasn't the normal hellish nightmare that was normally endured. There were literally no joggers on the sidewalks. No pedestrians crossing the streets, narrowly avoiding a screeching car. No walkers in the park, save for the occasional star-crossed lovers walking hand in hand, their eyes met in that look that all-too-well says all the things that words and long-overused clichés can not.

No, for once, the city was quite quiet. Almost as if it had been abandoned.

And yet, something was brewing. As silent as it was, there was a storm approaching that very few could see. For there was a secret to this city that very few knew about, and even fewer were still alive to know of it. It was a secret that had once almost destroyed the city, had it not been for the few people that had been there to stop it.

But history was about to repeat itself.

And this time, the carnage that would be left in its wake would be the most catastrophic the world had ever seen.

* * *

Somewhere, deep in the sewers of the city, a dim light shone through the darkness. And, if one were to follow it, they were to find themselves in a small, circular room, with an old man standing over another, younger man, the latter lying unconscious on a small, flat cot.

The old man was small and frail, with tufts of gray hair and a smile that, when it popped up, took over his entire face. He was very feeble, yet had enough energy to power a battle tank. The younger man was different. He was probably near his middle ages, and his beard, which had been a little scrubble at first, was now full and took over his entire face. Maybe once, he had been one who got a lot of exercise, maybe even partook in dangerous events, but that was many a year ago. If he were ever to wake up, it was doubted he could do all of that again.

He stood over this poor wretch of a creature, with a look of sympathy on his face. He hadn't budged, hadn't blinked, once since he had found him, that day, ten years ago. Back then, he was a mess. He looked like he had been beaten badly, maybe even at one point been smacked around with a heavy lead pipe. And that awful gut-wound; a sword or some damn thing had cut clear right through his stomach. Whatever the hell this guy had gone through, it must've been pretty intense.

That was ten years ago. The gut had healed, and the bruises were gone. But he was still out of it. Ten years, and still nothing but a faint heartbeat. The old man sighed and went over to his little stove.

He had lived down here for a very long time. For what reason was his own, thank you very much, but it meant little to him, since he enjoyed his privacy. He had not come into distinct contact with a human being in many a year, and preferred to keep it that way, but this man intrigued him. There was something about him; something that made him believe in something that he hadn't believed in since he were a boy.

He went back over to him, sitting down at his chair, coffee mug in his hand. This was pretty much his routine for the last decade, watch this man. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. He was almost eighty years old; it wasn't like he could do anything important with his life anymore.

He smiled. Then he reached forward, just to pat the man's head-

Suddenly, the man jerked awake in time to grab the old one's arm. The old man cried out as he fell backwards to the ground with the once-comatose stranger on top of him, his hands now stationed at the eighty-year-old's neck, about to strangle him.

Now that he was awake, the old man could see him as more than just a poor, unconscious thirty-something-year-old man. Now he could officially add deranged and even possibly homicidal to the list. His eyes…those eyes were so intense, had obviously seen so much. Despite the grave situation, he laughed.

"Meant no harm, friend," he said, in his wheezy little Southern voice. "After all these years, hell, I almost thought you were dead."

It was then that the man began to realize he was somewhere different than where he had originally remembered himself. Slowly, he released the grip he had on the man and looked around. The dimly lit passage, the small, yet almost homely little room they were currently in…

"Where am I?" he asked, and he became surprised by the hoarseness in his own voice; it sounded as though it had not been used in years.

"Yer safe," was the answer. "I dunno who ya were running from, but they don't have a snowball's chance in Hell of finding yeh down here, that's for sure."

Now he turned to look at this man. He didn't believe he had ever seen somebody look so old, so frail. He looked like he would fall apart at any moment. And yet, he had saved him. He frowned.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Friends call me Soapy," the old man replied, giving a little bow and a miniature salute, a giant grin taking over his small face. "Well, if any of 'em was still alive, anyway. And who are you, good sir?"

The young man didn't answer at first. He just continued to look around at his surroundings, transfixed by the simple little shelter that had kept him alive.

"Sylar," he finally answered; a short, curt response.

"Well, Mr. Sylar, it's a pleasure to finally get to talk to yeh," Soapy sat back down in his chair, bringing the coffee mug off its rest and to his lips. "I can't tell yeh how long I've been sittin' here, waitin' for you to wake up. Yer a fighter, I admire that."

Sylar continued to look around. And then, suddenly, something hit him. A memory.

"Petrelli…" That smug, pompous brat… When he found him, Sylar was gonna make him wish he had never been born. "I gotta find Petrelli."

He began walking out when Soapy called out to him.

"The Petrelli Brothers?" he asked, alarmed. "You mean Nathan and Peter?"

Sylar stopped, turned, and nodded a quick nod.

"Hell, son, that was ten years ago!" Now the old man was amazed. "Did you know them?"

Another nod. Soapy bit his lip.

"Hate to tell yeh, friend, but…neither of 'em survived," he told him despondently, hating to be the one to give his guest bad news. "Most bizarre thing in the world- explodin' over New York, accordin' to the eyewitnesses. Damn shame, too…Nathan had just won the election and all that. Their mother was just heartbroken over it, or so I've come to hear-"

But Sylar wasn't really paying attention to the rest. His mind focused on two thoughts: that Petrelli and his brother were dead finally- which, to him, was a relief- and the other thing the old man had told him.

"What did you say today's date was?" he asked.

Soapy stopped mid-sentence.

"I didn't, but it's November, 2017. Why?"

The younger man was frozen. He looked down, lost in his own thoughts and emotions.

"Ten years…"

Had it really been that long? Had he really been asleep for an entire decade? The last thing he remembered was that little Asian stabbing him through the chest with the samurai sword and then him trying to escape through the sewers. And then… he looked down at his stomach. The wound was gone entirely. He then looked into the mirror, and his gaunt, bearded face stared back at him.

It was true. Ten years had really passed.

"Sorry," Soapy got back up and put his hand on Sylar's shoulder. "I know this is hard for you to grasp, but-"

But the man shrugged away. He looked down at his hands; the hands that, one decade ago, had caused so much death and destruction. With just a swift flick of his finger, he could slice open a human's skull- take their brain and add their powers to his own. He hadn't used any of his powers in so long…

He had to make sure they still worked.

He looked at the old man, a kind of hungry look in his eyes. Not the best brain in the world, but it would be a good place to start. Soapy inched back nervously, his hand clutching the chair to keep him up.

"What?" he asked.

Sylar stopped. _No_, he thought, _not yet_. The old man might still be useful, in his own way. And having some company around might not be so much of a bad thing.

"Nothing," he said. Soapy relaxed more.

Sylar looked around the room, looking for anything he could use to experiment. His eyes fell upon the coffee mug on the chair. A good start. He stretched out his arm and focused all of his thought on it. He could see, in his minds eye, the object picking itself up, moving across the room, and placing itself gently on the table.

Slowly, but surely, the mug began to lift itself up into the air. Where his hand went, it did too, with a bit of a delay. Sylar smiled evilly, as he waved his hand to the counter and brought it down. The mug followed these movements and sat on the surface as if it had been placed there by an actual hand.

Soapy's eyes went wide, and his mouth dropped.

"Well, I'll be damned…" he said, his voice a mere whisper. He looked away from the mug and back to Sylar. "I _knew_ there was somethin' special 'bout you, boy," he said, glee taking over his voice, "but God DAMN, is this somethin'!"

Sylar nodded. He still had the basic power. Now for the other ones.

He closed his eyes and focused. The next step: try to see the future. The ability that the painter Mendez had had. He had used it before; now time to see what would happen next.

Except…nothing was happening. He couldn't access the state of mind that Isaac had had. Sylar tried again and again, but he could do nothing. He opened his eyes again, turning to face Soapy, an alarmed expression on his face.

The old man frowned.

"What?" he asked again, less fearful now. "Can you do anything else?"

Sylar tried to access his other abilities- the radioactivity, the sonic-hearing, the molecular manipulation, any of them- and each and every time he tried, he came up empty. Finally, he gave up. Slamming his fist on the table, he cursed.

"Damn it…" Everything he had been through, all the powers he had gathered…now it was all for nothing. Everything he had gone through had been for nothing.

"So what're you gonna do now, friend?" asked Soapy, drinking from his coffee- after he picked it up and examined it thoroughly.

"My other powers are gone…" Sylar turned back to the old man, shaking his head. All of this seemed so impossible… one minute, he was escaping from an exploding human, and the next, it was ten years later, his powers minus his telepathy were gone, and he was in the sewers stuck with a crazy old man. The world as he had shaped it was over.

Or…was it? Petrelli was dead, so there was no more threat of him. All those others that had stood in his way had to be gone by now. And there would be new "special" people…Suresh had said there were millions of them, all over the country, the _world_.

And he would find them. All of them.

He smiled again.

"I think it's time I got them back…"

* * *

The town was, for the most part, dead. But in one apartment flat, one man was sitting in his dark room, his mind scanning over the events that had transpired. That were _about_ to transpire.

Mikhail Grigorovich sat in a chair by his desk, twiddling his cane in his hands. Around him stood ideas for his many stories: A girl who could move objects with her mind. A man who could get flashes of the future. A woman who could create a non-physical image of herself. A man who could shoot fire out of his hands. He had written all of those plots, all of those ideas. And he couldn't see them with his own eyes.

He couldn't see _anything_ with his own eyes.

His fingers creeped under his dark glasses and rubbed his useless eyeballs with a tired feeling. At his feet rested another idea, a scrapped one: A man, returned from the dead, trying to regain his former strength. It was this idea that was keeping the sixty-year-old Russian man from sleep this current moment. It was an idea that came from the event of ten years ago.

"Sylar…" he whispered to himself, in a thick Russian accent.

He knew everything about this man. He knew his past, his present, his future. All of it was known to him, without research, without a glance at an old photo album of the man. And he also knew what would happen if this man were to get his way again.

Catastrophe. Enraged, wild catastrophe, without remorse or pity.

And this was one future he did not wish to see happen.

He reached over and picked up one of the brainstorms on his desk. He examined it with his mind's eye. He smiled, his rotten teeth gleaming yellow.

"I believe it is time I began recruiting the new heroes…"

* * *

Yeah, that's how it begins.

If you want to, review. In fact, I highly recommend it. If you do, kudos. If not, your business. If you wanna read more, but don't review, well, then, buckle your seatbelts, because thy will be done.

So, 'til next time, see ya.


	2. Raising the Bar

**Not One Step Back**

Summery: It's ten years after the events in New York. The old heroes have moved on, and the world has forgotten all that once was. Now, Sylar's back in town. And he's killing again, in a new, more inhumane way. And the only thing standing in his way is a new set of heroes, each one trying to figure out what the hell is going on with them.

Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to NBC. Everything you don't, most likely, it's the result of my twisted, messed-up mind.

Category: We're looking at action/adventure, angst, humor, romance, and, of course, mystery and supernatural

Brought to you by: Wesker888, your residential write-about-whatever-I-feel-like author.

Rating: T for now, mainly for language and stuff. As the story continues, it'll probably be bumped up to M for intense violence.

Author's Notes: I made a wee bit of an error in regards to Silent Dre's story. His title is actually in German, not Latin. I had forgotten this fact. My apologies, friend.

Also, I am now all caught up in the series, so… I know what's going on. All of it….yeah.

I think that's about it for notes. Enjoy.

* * *

_Elizabeth Andrews_

_Jackson, Mississippi_

_Monday, November 7__th__, 2017 07:16 A.M._

* * *

Liz stared at the glass. And, if it were an animate object with eyes, the glass probably would've stared back at her. Her face was scrunched up, deep in concentration, though for what, no one passing by knew for certain. She closed her eyes, adding to the concentration. Her body began shaking, harder, as she tried harder for the unknown to happen.

Finally, it did.

The glass shook a bit, rattling. Some of the water stored in it poured over the top and spilled onto the counter. Slowly, then, it lifted, like if someone had held it and picked it up themselves. Except, there was no hand. It was just the glass, lifting, ever so slowly, into the air.

All on its own.

Liz cracked open an eye briefly. She saw the glass raising, just a couple of inches off the table, all by itself. Her eyes flew open, and her lips twisted into a gleeful smile. Triumphantly, she raised her fist into the air.

"YES!"

At the sudden motion, the glass fell and shattered on the table. Water spilled on the surface and onto the rugged-floor, staining it. Surprised, she jumped back with another yelp. Not that she had never broken a glass during these "tests". This was just the first one to actually have something in it while she did it.

She had to remember to control that.

"Lizzie? Are you up yet?" Her mother called to her through the door.

"Uh…yeah! I'm coming!" her daughter called back, stuffing the broken pieces into the trash bin. She grabbed her backpack and headed for the door, forgetting about the still-wet stain on her rug. She shrugged. She'd deal with it when she got home.

---------------------------

Five minutes and fifty-some odd brushes through the hair later, the front door of their house opened, and Elizabeth Andrews ran out of her house and barreled down the sidewalk, with her mother calling after her.

"Don't forget- after school, I need you back here to pick your brother up off the bus!" she shouted.

"OK, Mom!"

Liz waved her mother good-bye and turned back the way she was walking, happily humming to herself.

She was your standard seventeen-going-on-eighteen-year-old girl, living with her mother and little brother in Jackson. Nothing too out of the ordinary- brown hair with some streaks of blonde that her friend had done for her for her birthday that was usually put back in a ponytail. In addition, she had a short but attractive figure, perfect white teeth, and an eager bounce to her step. She was as bubbly as any cheerleader, though she had long since promised never to be, as being a cheerleader, in her opinion, often led to putting a girl into a situation she really shouldn't be in. she was vivacious enough to act on stage, which was what she did- acting suited her far more than cheerleading ever would. And she was determined enough to work for a newspaper; which is why, perhaps, she became a reporter for the school's paper. All in all, she was probably the most normal, most happy teenager-going on-adult you would meet.

That's how most people viewed her, anyway.

Oh course, they didn't know what went on with her behind closed doors.

She hummed to herself. It all began about a month ago, at a party. She and a few friends had gathered together one afternoon, just to hang out. At one point, as she was sitting alone on the porch to just relax, she closed her eyes for a brief moment. Her mind wandered, to what, she couldn't remember, but when she opened her eyes, for a brief moment, she saw her cup above her hand.

_Floating _above her hand.

Since then, she had been practicing her newfound abilities whenever she was alone. So far, she had managed to raise glasses and small rocks, eventually moving on to lifting her desk chair and lamp after a lot of practice. And that was just the stuff she knew about. God knows there had to be some when she was asleep; whenever she was waking up, something always went thud when she opened her eyes.

She didn't tell anyone about this. Not her mom, not her brother, not her teachers at school. Hell, some of her closest friends in the world had no clue at all that their friend could move objects with her mind.

…Well, save one.

---------------------------

"Ellie! Wait up!"

Eleanor Gallagher groaned as she heard her best friend calling her from down the street. She waited there until Liz caught up to her.

Before Ellie could greet her, the first words out of her friend's mouth were, "I did it again."

This just brought another groan from Ellie, who pushed past her and continued walking.

"What, you mean you still think you can raise bricks with your mind and chuck them down the street?" she asked sarcastically, not in the mood for "psychic talk" this morning.

"No, I'm serious!" Liz walked alongside her, continuing on anxiously. "Today, I made the glass rise a foot or two above the desk. Completely filled-up."

"Wow. That's great. You picked the glass up two feet. My little Lizzie's growing up."

"No, you moron, with-" she looked around to make sure no one was listening, "with my _mind_."

Ellie gave her friend "The Look." Liz hated that look; hated it with a fiery passion. It was the look she got when her friend was either annoyed, pissed off, skeptical, or all three. The look that made her feel like a gigantic moron, or said that she was about to be murdered in a most brutal fashion.

"Liz," she said, "I'm not in the mood to hear this today. Chris just dumped me last night."

Liz's eyes went wide, and her mouth dropped.

"What? _Why_??"

"Oh, you know. The usual bullshit response whenever a guy dumps someone," Ellie replied bitterly. "He felt we should spend a little time apart, that things were changing, I dunno. Point is, it's over."

"God, El, I'm so sorry. I know he meant a lot to you-"

"Whatever," she shrugged.

"It's not whatever, you guys dated for over a year-"

"Whatever, OK? I don't want to talk about it anymore. I don't even know why I brought it up in the first place."

She kept on walking, with her gaze straight ahead. Liz sighed. This was always how it went with her, it seemed.

She had known Ellie practically her whole life, and her whole life, she'd always been just as bubbly as she had been. Lately, though, she had ditched this personality and had taken on a much more darker persona. She wasn't goth; she was just a bit emo. Her clothes were dark and her vibrant red hair often fell down over her eyes. And while Liz stayed in the spotlight, she took a more behind-the-scenes approach, sticking to poetry club and stage crew. She retained some of her original attributes- like her sarcastic sense of humor- but other than that, she was an entirely new person.

"Can we talk about your mind powers after school, please?" said Ellie as she walked the stairs leading into school. "We have a huge test first period, don't forget. And I kind of want to pass it."

"But El," Liz insisted, "this is important! I've taken the first real steps into having real powers. I mean, the other day, my chair floated- _floated_, El- for a _minute, _no lie. And think about what else I could've done, without even knowing it! I could, I dunno… screwed around with my mom's windmill, or change the hands of the clocks, or-" She stopped suddenly, as a look of dawning spread across her face. "That would explain my alarm clock the other day."

"It was five minutes off. Nothing to call CNN over."

"My clock is NEVER off, Ellie, and you know that."

"Oh, but it was off because you made it get off 'with your mind'?"

"I'm saying, I don't really know! I do remember that I wanted to sleep a little while longer, and then the next thing I know, my alarm clock screws up on me."

Before Ellie could make a worthy comeback, the bell rang. Students loitering outside began collecting their things and proceeded into the building. Students just arriving parked their cars and hurried out to the door, almost tripping over their feet about two or three times each. Ellie sighed.

"C'mon, I don't wanna be late for this test. We'll talk later," she said, as if the matter was dropped.

Liz watched her leave and followed grudgingly with a sigh. "Later" in her vocabulary usually meant at a time and place where she would have forgotten the earlier conversation had happened. She always pulled that card when she was pissed off or didn't feel like talking about something.

Though she really wished she would.

---------------------------------

Having 1st period Trig, for anyone who's never had it, is probably the worst thing in the world. Except, however, for when you have a grade-altering _test_ in 1st period Trig.

For the girls, this nightmare had just become a reality not ten minutes ago. Both were now taking the test, Ellie was about half-way through it. Hoping to some god in heaven that she could finish this test and get a passing grade.

Her mind drifted to the argument of just a few minutes ago. She sighed. She hated fighting with Liz, she really did. But…God, she was just so impossible to work with. Always so damn chirpy, always giving everyone this bright happy smile, as if life was the best thing to ever happen to her. Especially lately, with all of this talk of being psychic.

Psychic. The very thought of such a thing just made her snort in disbelief. There was no such thing, at least, not in her mind. She always had the belief that, if she couldn't see it for herself, then it just wasn't fathomable. And Liz kept saying she couldn't show her because she "wasn't fully developed yet." Therefore, proving her belief.

However, in the desk next to her, Liz wasn't too concerned anymore with the fight. Her eyes were instead fixated on the tank with their class pet in it. It was a crab; which worked in two senses. A- She wasn't allergic to it, and B- it was light enough to move.

Ellie didn't believe her, huh?

Well, then it was time to get her to.

She concentrated all of her mind energy on the tank, in trying to lift it. She didn't close her eyes this time; she wanted to see if she could do it, eyes open this time. Her body shook a little as she concentrated fully on the large object. In her mind's eye, she could see herself raising the tank, about two feet or so, and then Ellie seeing for herself what she could do. A little more time…

Ellie was about halfway through her test when she heard something _clank_ next to her. She closed her eyes. Whatever Liz was doing, it wasn't worth looking over to see. It just wasn't worth it. _Don't look, don't look, don't look…_

Another _clank_. She looked up, just to see if anyone else had noticed the noise. All the other students were engrossed in their tests. Mr. Lawson was fixated on the paperwork in front of him. So, apparently, either the noise was only meant for her ears, or she was the only non-deaf girl in the room.

She sighed. She was _so_ going to regret this later. She turned to tell her friend to knock off whatever she was doing-

Her pencil rolled off the desk and clattered onto the floor. She didn't notice it, however, because she was too busy noticing the large crab-tank that was floating about three feet above where it was supposed to be sitting. Her mouth fell open, her eyes widened, and she all of a sudden had a very large urge to just run out of the classroom and head for home. Because, right then, she felt she was going to pass out on the floor.

She looked at her friend. Liz had not looked back at her yet; she was still staring at the fish tank. It fully dawned on Ellie, then, what was going on. The face that she refused to actually believe, but was shooting her right in the face. The disregard from the supernatural was being challenged by the pure, hard, undisputable fact.

Liz was moving that tank with her mind.

OK, Ellie thought, this is just wrong. She had to make her stop, or she would seriously loose it. She reached out to tap her shoulder, to tell her to stop-

SMASH!

Her hand never even reached her friends' shoulder, because right then, the tank exploded in mid-air, sending shards of glass flying. At this, everyone finally reacted, either shrieking or ducking under their desks to escape the glass. Liz and Ellie, the two closest to the tank, did both of those reactions. Of course, also being closest to it meant getting the blunt of the impact. The glass cut Liz's shoulder and another shard hit Ellie's hand, the latter leaving a pretty deep cut as a result. The rest of the glass landed on them, but left no real injuries other than a few scrapes.

Both girls looked up. The tank was pretty much gone, save for the bottom of it, where the crab was crawling around, no longer restricted to a see-through rectangular box. Ellie was scared out of her wit for what had just happened. Not only was this super power creepy- it was also downright dangerous.

Liz, however, was more puzzled than afraid. That was weird…usually, with the tests, glass objects exploded when they hit the _ground_. Not when they were three feet in mid-air…

"Ms. Andrews, Ms. Gallagher."

Mr. Lawson was standing over the now destroyed crab tank, holding up the now-free crab in front of them.

"Care to explain?" he asked them.

The two girls exchanged looks. Ellie cocked an eyebrow, waiting for some explanation. Liz shrugged, not having a ready one to give her. At least, not for why the tank exploded the way it did. Her friend sighed and shook her head.

"I see…" The Trig teacher shook his head. "Then I guess I'm just gonna have to see you two after school today. Two o'clock-"

"What?!" exclaimed Ellie. "Mr. Lawson, no! I promised my mom I'd be home right after school; it's my grandfather's birthday-"

"Two o'clock."

His words made it sound so final- detention. He walked over to the sink and placed the crab inside, making sure that the drain was completely blocked. Ellie glared at Liz with an evil stare that made Liz feel two feet tall and shrinking fast. She then crossed her arms and placed them on the desk, then placed her head in them, the test laying forgotten beneath her. Liz sat there for a few moments before remembering that she, too, had promised to get home early, to watch her brother.

Oh, her mom was not going to be happy about _this_ one.

* * *

Kind of a lame chapter, but I'm pretty pleased with how it turned out.

Review please!


	3. Noodles, Anyone?

**Not One Step Back**

Summery: It's ten years after the events in New York. The old heroes have moved on, and the world has forgotten all that once was. Now, Sylar's back in town. And he's killing again, in a new, more inhumane way. And the only thing standing in his way is a new set of heroes, each one trying to figure out what the hell is going on with them.

Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to NBC. Everything you don't, most likely, it's the result of my twisted, messed-up mind.

Category: We're looking at action/adventure, angst, humor, romance, and, of course, mystery and supernatural

Brought to you by: Wesker888, your residential write-about-whatever-I-feel-like author.

Rating: T for now, mainly for language and stuff. As the story continues, it'll probably be bumped up to M for intense violence.

Author's Notes: Kudos to **Silent Dre, LighteningStruckBlackDog, MagikCat, Lady of Realities** and **tacobell** for adding me to favorites and alerts lists and to **Silent Dre** and **LighteningStruckBlackDog** for the kind reviews. Thank you all.

I think that's about all.

Enjoy

* * *

_Emma Lawson_

_Washington, D.C._

_Monday, November 7__th__, 2017 11:30 A.M._

* * *

In another part of the country that morning, a woman was getting out of a taxi cab at her destination point. She shivered from the cold air, wrapping her long heavy coat around her thin body for warmth. Her hand reached into her coat pocket and brought out a cell phone. Flipping it open, she hit the SEND button and brought it up to her ear. She paused for a brief moment, and then spoke.

"Hey Dad," she said. "It's Emma. I know you have classes right now, but I'm just calling to wish you Happy Birthday, and that I'll try you again tonight. Kay, love you. Bye."

She hung up and placed the phone back into her pocket. She wrapped herself up in her coat again and proceeded into her workplace.

Emma Lawson was twenty-four. She had moved to Washington from Mississippi three years ago after finishing college. She was a young, plain yet attractive woman with long light-black hair and brown eyes. She was quiet, for the most part, and liked to keep to herself. But she was the kindest young woman you could ever hope to meet. Somehow, she always managed to forgive someone who had wronged her, and looked out for the people close to her. She had moved here for a simple desk job, but ended up getting a lot more than that.

She walked up the steps to her building when her phone vibrated. She stopped, again took it out and checked the message, expecting it to be from her father. Her face fell as she read it, and then placed the phone back in her pocket without responding to it. She couldn't bring herself to respond to it. Not now, anyway.

Stepping into the building, she was instantly greeted by her co-workers. All of them seemed to go out of their way to wave to her or say "Good morning" in the hallway. People who, several months before, had ignored her or sneered down at her, now offered cups of coffee or a morning donut from the Dunkin' Donuts down the street. It was always embarrassing for her, even now, three months after the event, but Emma didn't make a big deal out of it. This was just their way of showing appreciation. Who was she to say otherwise about it?

She arrived to her office, where Kelly, her assistant and friend, was typing away at her computer. Emma shut the door behind her and let out the loud groan she had been suppressing the whole way in.

"Sometimes, it's just a little too much," she said.

"Just a little?" her friend asked with a little laugh.

Emma sat down at her chair and rubbed her forehead. Kelly slid her chair over to her. She was a tall, smart girl with blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and small rectangle-shaped glasses perched on her nose. Her green eyes flickered in the sunlight, her playful little smile dancing on her face. She had been a partier growing up, and some of it still showed, but she was also a hard worker and a devoted friend, as Emma had found out not long after the main event had happened three months ago.

"Emma," she said, "you wrote a book. One that made it onto the _New York Times Bestseller_ list. Obviously, people are going to be impressed and want to get into your good graces."

"And they're really sweet for doing it, really," her friend insisted, then with a sigh, added, "but it gets really tiring, really fast. And it's not even that good a book. I mean, it doesn't tell how to end world hunger or stop the war or anything like that. It's a fictional story."

"Yeah, about a guy with psychic powers that's part of a larger-than-life conspiracy. People get more attached to that than they ever would about world problems."

Emma sighed. As much as she hated the fact, she knew that Kelly was probably right in that department.

It all started with an idea. A completely ludicrous and random idea that her friend Harry had come up with about a year ago, when they were at home on vacation. They had just been sitting around, watching some old movies, and she couldn't remember what movie it was or what had brought up the conversation, but he had suddenly said that he had never seen a story dealing with anything relating to telekinesis or anything like that. Sure, there were video games, and the like, but nothing more. He went on to say how it was that kind of book he could really get into, as would a lot of people that were up for reading that didn't feel like grabbing something that could actually teach any sort of lesson.

That idea had been left on the back burner for two months, until she found herself passing by a bookstore and the idea suddenly flew back into her mind. When she went home that night, the thought was still with her, so much that she could barely get to sleep. For three days, she pondered what he had said to her, about how people would love to read a story like that. Half of her didn't really believe it; it was Harry, after all, and he had always been a little weird with his beliefs and schemes. But the idea still wouldn't leave her- she thought about it during meals, during showers, in bed, and at work, until finally, she couldn't leave it alone anymore.

She wrote the whole thing in about seven months, checking and re-checking and researching so she had some clue as to what she was talking about and not just taking a shot in the dark. By the time she was finished, she had about three to four hundred pages confined within twenty-seven chapters. She thought it would be a minor book- thoroughly enjoyed, not widely publicized.

How wrong she was.

The book hit No. 5 on the list within a month. In another one, it was No. 1 and it still remained that, even now. She had appeared on the Oprah Winfrey _and_ the Morning Show with Regis and Kelly, and had been to more book signings than she knew how to count; all because of this one random idea.

Emma leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples with her fingers. The headache was just getting worse now. As she did, her phone began to vibrate again. She flipped it open, saw the number, and flipped it shut again, also with a groan. Kelly again looked up from her report.

"You have to talk to him eventually, you know that?" she said, knowing full well what-or who- she was talking about.

"I can't. It's too weird right now."

"He's your best friend."

"He _was_…I don't know what we are now."

It was confusing. She and Harry had reached that point in their lives where neither friends nor lovers and not entirely somewhere in between. It was as though they were in some sort of alternate universe, where nothing made sense and everything that had once been was now the complete opposite of it. It was just there; it had no start to it, no end to it. Though she wished there WAS an end to it.

"Emma-"

"Let's just get to work. I'm way behind on these papers enough as it is."

Emma returned to the vastly growing amount of paperwork on her desk. Kelly sighed and returned to hers as well, knowing better than to pursue a conversation that had no beginning and no end, and probably never would.

------------------------

Work was always dull, but today just went by slower than a turtle in a race. Papers, mounds and mounds of papers, all overflowing from past ignorance, seemed to rain down on her like an avalanche. But Emma didn't complain; she just kept working, not looking up, not making small talk. It was at about mid-afternoon that Kelly sat back, stretching her badly-cramping fingers.

"Alright, if I don't take a break right now, I'm gonna lose my fingers," she complained.

She opened up the paper and began reading it. Emma, deciding now was as good a time as any for a breather, sat back as well.

"What's new in the world?" she asked.

"Not much," was the answer. "Just that mob violence in Boston's getting worse."

"I thought that was over with years ago."

"So did I."

Kelly folded up the paper again just as soon as she had unfolded it, and stood up.

"I'm going to the caf," she said. "You want anything?"

"Nuke me some noodles?"

"Yeah, sure."

Her friend walked out. Emma lay back again, suddenly very tired.

She hadn't had time to sleep much lately. What with the book sales and work and her situation with Harry… sleep had been as elusive as Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. Every time she went to sleep, it seemed like some new thing was keeping her from achieving it.

_It wouldn't hurt, would it? Just to take a quick snooze?_

No. Surely it wouldn't. And it was just a quick nap. Yes, she thought as she let out a small yawn, she could probably pull off a quick nap.

She placed her weary head on her arms. Her eyes closed and she soon fell into a deep slumber, with only one last thought crossing her mind:

_I wonder when my noodles will be done…_

------------------------

_She walked lazily through the hallways, passing by her workmates that earlier had been so cheery to her. This time, they didn't even notice her or look up as she passed. She kept walking, not concerning herself with them. She just continued to her objective._

_Had she known of it, she would've thought herself invisible to the world. But she had no perception of it, no inkling of what was going on. All she knew was that she was hungry and that she wanted her noodles before she died of starvation. That was a bit of an exaggeration, but it did feel like she had not eaten in a very long time. And Kelly was probably taking forever. She'd have to get it herself._

_She kept walking, when her boss and a couple other office members came down the hall towards her. They too didn't look up to acknowledge their golden girl. Nor did she have any acknowledgement of them. They kept walking towards each other, until they got to the point of passing each other._

_Her body went right through them, like a blade, though with no indication from the people of anything ever happening to them. Both went on just as they had been._

_Finally, she reached the cafeteria. She saw Kelly sitting at the table, reading her paper again while at the same time enjoying a chicken sub with a salad to join it. Again, she gave no knowledge of her friend being there as the other ignored her and went over to the microwave._

_Her noodles were done, just sitting in the microwave. It probably wouldn't be taken out until Kelly was done with her food. By then, it would be colder, so she'd probably have to put it in for another minute or so._

_She'd rather just deal with it herself._

_She opened the door and grabbed the noodles. Kelly didn't even look up at the noise, she just kept eating. Her friend closed the door and walked out as if in a trance, the steaming hot bowl of noodles not even torching her fingertips._

_Walking back down the hall was the same as it had before. All her co-workers yet again refused to acknowledge her, or even look up, as if they didn't even hear her at all. Finally, she reached her desk, and-_

_She looked down at her desk, where her sleeping form still rested. Calmly, she walked over, placed the bowl on the table, and closed her eyes…_

------------------------

"Hey, wake-up."

Emma's eyes fluttered open at Kelly's voice. She picked her head up. Her friend was holding her food. She rubbed her eyes.

"Sorry," she said. "Just needed a quick rest."

"Sorry it took so long," Kelly went on with, placing the bowl on the table. "I made some, but then some asshole swiped them when I had my back turned, so I had to pop in a second one. Which is weird, because I don't remember anyone coming in, but anyway, so I- oh?"

She stopped. Emma frowned and looked at what she was staring at-

-Which was another steaming bowl of noodles, resting right next to the bowl Kelly had just laid down. Both women just stared at it.

"Um…I guess someone already thought ahead," Kelly finally broke the silence with. "I'll just…leave this one here, OK?"

"Yeah…sure…"

Emma barely even acknowledged what she had said. Her eyes were still fixed on the hot bowl, the noodles sizzling.

It was weird…she had just had a dream where she went to go get them…and now, here they were, just as she had put it there…

_Did…_I_ do that?_

* * *

And here I end it.

I'm really looking forward to next chapter. Maybe the clue in this one will tell you what it'll be about.

Review please.


	4. Dream or Reality?

**Not One Step Back**

Summery: It's ten years after the events in New York. The old heroes have moved on, and the world has forgotten all that once was. Now, Sylar's back in town. And he's killing again, in a new, more inhumane way. And the only thing standing in his way is a new set of heroes, each one trying to figure out what the hell is going on with them.

Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to NBC. Everything you don't, most likely, it's the result of my twisted, messed-up mind.

Category: We're looking at action/adventure, angst, humor, romance, and, of course, mystery and supernatural

Brought to you by: Wesker888, your residential write-about-whatever-I-feel-like author.

Rating: T for now, mainly for language and stuff. As the story continues, it'll probably be bumped up to M for intense violence.

Author's Notes: Since this next chapter takes place in Boston, I'd like you to imagine the characters with the accents of said city. Because it will be too much trouble to spell the "ah" in words, like "pahtnah" instead of "partner". So just imagine they have the accents.

**Also, no offense to anyone of any race when you read the mob chapters. I want to make that clear ****right now****. I do not have anything against anyone. I'm making a story; this story does not reflect my feelings or opinions of anyone.**

And also, I had this in mind before I found out Irish gangsters were going to be on the actual show, so I am not stealing. Although I _am_ happy for the Irish being there, and give the Irish salute for the fallen members. IRISH REPRESENT, BITCHES!!!

Enjoy

* * *

_J.T. Nelson_

_Boston, Massachusetts_

_Monday, November 7__th__, 2017 10:38 P.M._

* * *

It was the middle of the night in downtown Boston. Lights were out in the apartments; many people were fast asleep. And, unless something were to come by and disturb them, it was likely to remain that way-

_BAM! BAM! BAM!_

Barreling out of a back alley were two men, each with M92F handguns, both turning behind them and firing as they ran. Both were running as fast as they could, firing at an unseen enemy. One guy tripped over a box and fell forward, rolling over, and getting back up in time to fire three more bullets while his partner sprang ahead of him, no longer worrying about the fire.

When they reached their car, the first one skidded across the hood and landed on his feet on the other side as behind them, somewhere in the alleyway, there was a massive explosion, with a massive fiery mass that rocketed skyward accompanied with a devastating BOOM!

The first man, a rough guy with a shaved head and a full beard, whistled.

"Nice," was all he said, in a calm, mellow voice.

"Fuck," said the second one; a younger man with wild brown hair and a nervous face. He turned to his partner. "Ryan, let's get out of here, man."

"Easy," was the reply.

"Come on, man, they're right on our ass! Let's _move_!"

"We're not leaving without him, Tucker. So sit tight."

"How do you even know if he's alive?"

Ryan just gave him a look that was asking if he was retard or something.

"It's J.T., man," was all he answered with.

While these two were arguing, deep in the alleyway, another man was sprinting down the corridor. One arm was wrapped around a bulky carrying bag, and the other hand was clutching a .50 caliber Desert Eagle handgun which he occasionally turned to fire at whoever was chasing him. His hair was wet, his face drenched with sweat, but he showed no sign of being tired. On the contrary, he looked like he was having fun.

He turned the corner and saw his two partners waiting for him. He began waving his arm frantically, trying to get their attention. Which he did.

"GO! GO!"

Ryan ducked his head under the hood and behind the wheel. Tucker opened the shotgun door, but was roughly pushed aside by the third member as he jumped in. Panicking, the younger partner dove into the back seat's open window just as the car began to pull away, gunning 60 mph down the empty highway.

-------------

"You crazy mick! The hell were you doin'? You almost got us killed!" Tucker yelled as Ryan and the other man began their victory howls.

"Tuck, swear to God, you worry way too much," the third man answered, throwing a howl through the open window into the night air. "Live a little, buddy, if only a little."

J.T. Nelson was twenty-eight. He was tall and very skinny, with a long nose, hazel eyes, and messy black hair that stuck out at the sides and in back. He was born and raised Irish Catholic, and even though he rarely ever acted out the Catholic part, his Irish pride shown brighter than the rising sun. He had grown up in the "Southie Projects" of Boston, Massachusetts his whole life, knew every street corner and back alley there was, which is why he had become an essential role with the Irish Mob group that worked there.

And tonight, he had earned his bonus pay.

"Count your blessin's, boys, 'cause we're in the good tonight," Ryan proclaimed, counting up their loot while keeping one eye on the road. "Think Frank's gonna split some of it with us?" he joked.

"He'd better, cause I'll quit if he don't," J.T. retorted.

"Then he'd have to share," his friend laughed. "You're the best guy on the team he's got, and he knows it. He'd murder you before he'd let you go."

"That's not such a bad idea," Tucker mumbled from the backseat.

"Tuck," said J.T. with a groan, "you're new, so lemme explain a few simplicities to you. When we've got a job to do, we do it. No matter who gets shot, no matter who gets blown up. No matter who gets a fuckin' knife shoved so far up their ass it's piercing their brain, as long as it gets the job done, anything's fair game. You read me?"

The other man just shrugged. He was a recent arrival, just in from on-the-job training and already out from a big heist. J.T. didn't really mind him that much- when they went to the bar, get a couple whiskeys in him and he was good company- but his "play it safe" ways definitely got on his nerves at times, especially since their job was about as safe as playing chicken on the railroad tracks was.

J.T., on the other hand, had been an acting member of Frank Hannigan's crew since he had been a kid. His parents had been killed in a car accident at a young age, which had messed him up for months, and Frank had taken him under his wing as his guardian and mentor. It had turned him from a timid little kid to the fastest, toughest, most dedicated and most dangerous son of a bitch in all of South Boston.

Ryan leaned back in his seat and blew out smoke from his cigarette. He and J.T. had known each other since they were kids. Ryan's dad had been a member of the gang for years, and it was the kind of atmosphere he had been brought up in. The two kids had been partners since their first mission, and best friends for even longer. J.T. knew that he was a guy he could trust with his own life.

Lights down the street caused them to slow the car down. This was their destination. The plan was to get the money to Frank just as he was about to "wager" with a local gang boss that had been bringing trouble to their little group recently. The money wasn't a bribe, it was a going-away gift; as in, "take the money and go away, or we'll pop a few in your head." More than likely, it was going to be the latter. That was why the three of them were here; guns concealed in their sleeves, they could back Frank up if this thing got sour.

And somehow, these things always did seem to get sour.

--------------

For a man pushing past sixty, Frank Hannigan was pretty agile, and also pretty sharp. He could be facing five guns in his face at once, all cocked and ready to fire, and he wouldn't so much as blink. He'd just stand there, with that suave look on his face and that slick grin that gave everyone on his crew the impression that everything was under control. J.T. had never known anyone more fearless than him, and there wasn't a guy on the crew who didn't, in some way shape or form, admire the man and everything about him. He looked after his boys; they hadn't taken a loss in ten or so years, and even before that, casualties had been limited.

J.T., Ryan, and Tucker got out of the car and went inside, where their boss was waiting just outside the boardroom door. He looked at all of them through his dark glasses and gave them all a nod. He wasn't one for showing emotions, but J.T. knew they were his favorites. Him especially.

"You got the goods?" was all he asked, in his usual raspy Irish voice.

"Right here, Boss," Ryan handed over the bag with the stolen money to him.

Frank looked over the contents for a moment, then nodded and rolled the bag back up.

"Looks like you boys did another good job," he said. "Shall we proceed?"

He gestured towards the door. The three checked their sleeves to make sure their weapons were secured, and when they were, they nodded, and Frank opened the door leading into the room.

J.T. was right behind Tucker and was about to make his entrance when-

_He looked around the wood-colored room, at the two bodyguards that stood on either side of the door, and twice at the closet door in the corner. Things were starting to get a little bit rougher now, and that usually lead to trouble. Yet, he couldn't sense any. Maybe he was wrong this time. He hoped he was, anyway._

"_You seem awfully sure of yourself, Mr. Hannigan," the Italian boss said, somewhat resentfully._

"_Aren't I, though?" Frank flashed that little smirk, but this one was different; this was the smirk he usually flashed before things were about to get ugly. "It's a simple choice: get your gang together and leave town, or die. One or the other."_

"_Very amusing," his adversary replied. "But I have a better offer for you-"_

_BAM!_

_The closet door had come open, the gun was in the guy's hand, and smoke was coming out the muzzle. Frank fell to his knees, clutching the rapidly spreading pool of blood that was forming in his side. He looked up at the mob man, with a look of both resentment and shock on his face._

_BAM! Another shot fired from the gun. The bullet passed through the side of Frank's head, through his brain, and out the other end, the blowback shooting out all over the wall. He slumped sideways, expired._

_Then there was more shooting. From everywhere, it seemed. He looked around just as Ryan took a round that smashed square into his forehead, so hard steam came out the entrance. He watched as Tucker took one, two, three, more bullets to the chest and fall backwards, with blood bubbling out his mouth. He slid to the floor and, as if on cue, the window drapes fell on his dead form to cover him up._

_He was shaking, that was how afraid he was. And then he was consciously aware of the gun that had been raised again, this time in his direction. He wanted to raise his own gun to return fire, but his arm felt like lead. He closed his eyes as he heard the gun click._

_BAM!_

"Oye! J.T.!"

J.T. snapped out of the thought (or was it a daydream?) and looked up. Tucker motioned him to hurry up, looking impatient.

"C'mon, man, he's waiting on us!"

He shook his head just to clear it. What the hell was _that_? It was rare for him to dream on the job, especially _that_ kind of dream. Was he losing it? He didn't lose it; he was strict on that fact. It was just a fucked-up daydream. He scolded himself mentally for daydreaming on the job, and followed Tucker into the room.

Upon entering, however, he stopped dead again.

Daydreaming on the job was one thing, but how the HELL did he know what the room was going to look like before he had even seen the place? The light-brown wood walls that looked like the inside of a log cabin; the two guys standing at the entrance; and that closet door in the corner, where right behind was…

The room was real. Would the rest be real too?

"Mr. Hannigan." And right at the chair was that skinny-ass guinea mob leader that Frank had been talking to right before he had been "plugged". "A pleasure of you to join us tonight."

"It's always a pleasure doing business," Frank replied, smooth as silk. "Even though the people I do the business with aren't always as much so."

That was how Frank worked; he said what was on his mind, and said it as politely as he could. He dropped the money right in front of the mob man and stood back.

"What's this?" the man asked.

"Think of it as a little…going away gift," replied Frank.

"Going away? I was not aware I was going anywhere."

"Then let me explain to you." As he spoke, he walked around the table, like a lion stalking his prey. "For the past three months, you've been operating drug deals on our turf. _Irish_ turf, I might add. Maybe you didn't get the memo, maybe you thought it would be OK, or maybe you're just being an ignorant fuck. I honestly can't know."

The two men by the door stiffened, but their boss held up his hand to silence them. His face was growing red with anger, and J.T., for the first time, felt uneasy. He again looked at the door, almost feeling that person behind the door.

"At first I found it amusing. But then I just found it annoying. And for some reason, no matter how many of your boys I've sent back to you in a body bag, you just don't learn the lesson," Frank stopped again in front of the desk. "So I'm gonna make this simple: that money is for your troubles. If you don't leave, we kill you. If you take it, and don't leave, we kill you. You take it, and you never bring your dirty ass on my turf again, you're free to go."

J.T. looked around at the wood-colored room, at the two guys standing at the door, and then twice more over the door. And right then, he caught himself. This was it. The moment right before all hell broke loose. And this time, he knew things were going to get bad. And he knew just how bad.

"You seem awfully sure of yourself, Mr. Hannigan," the Italian boss said, somewhat resentfully.

"Aren't I, though?" Frank flashed that little smirk, but this one was different; this was the smirk he usually flashed before things were about to get ugly. "It's a simple choice: get your gang together and leave town, or die. One or the other."

"Very amusing," his adversary replied. "But I have a better offer-"

_BAM! BAM! BAM!_

J.T. didn't wait. He didn't bother waiting. Before the guy could get out the rest of his sentence, he had slid out his Desert Eagle and pumped three rounds into the closet door. The movement caused the two men at the door to pull out their guns, but quick as a flash, Ryan and Tucker had their guns out and pointed at them. Everyone stood completely still, looking right at J.T., who instantly wondered if he had done the right thing or if he had just fucked things up for everybody. It had been a stupid daydream. Had he really given up their lives for-

BANG!

The closet door was open, and the guy inside fell face-first onto the ground, and the gun fell out of his hand and lay on the floor. Pools of blood began forming underneath his dead form. J.T. felt Ryan and Tucker give each other shocked looks, but when he looked at Frank, he was still staring at the Italian boss, who had gone from beet red to pale white.

"Well, well, well," he said, and as he said it, he pulled his own six-gun out of his pocket. "Looks like this changes the outcome of this scenario, wouldn't you say?"

"Please…wait-"

BAM!

One bullet later, and the Italian boss slumped back in his chair with his brains completely gone. Two more shots fired and both of his bodyguards were on the floor, Tucker and Ryan standing over them with smoking guns. Frank stepped over and grabbed the money bag off the desk, taking one more look at his handiwork.

"I'd say a successful job well done," he said, turning to his men. "Shall we retire, and leave this mess for the pigs?"

He walked out, not looking over or saying any other words, but J.T. had the distinct feeling his eyes were on him as he walked out the door. As he left, Ryan went over to him with an urgent look on his face.

"How the hell did you know about that guy?" he demanded.

J.T. looked down at the man he had killed; killed because he had been hidden, waiting for the perfect moment to kill him. And the only reason he had known him to be there…was because he had imagined it to have happened.

"Lucky guess…"

* * *

Main character No. 3. Just one more main, and then we can really dive right in.

Read, review, peace out 'til next time.


	5. A Scientific Calling

Not One Step Back

**Not One Step Back**

Summery: It's ten years after the events in New York. The old heroes have moved on, and the world has forgotten all that once was. Now, Sylar's back in town. And he's killing again, in a new, more inhumane way. And the only thing standing in his way is a new set of heroes, each one trying to figure out what the hell is going on with them.

Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to NBC. Everything you don't, most likely, it's the result of my twisted, messed-up mind.

Category: We're looking at action/adventure, angst, humor, romance, and, of course, mystery and supernatural

Brought to you by: Wesker888, your residential write-about-whatever-I-feel-like author.

Rating: T for now, mainly for language and stuff. As the story continues, it'll probably be bumped up to M for intense violence.

Author's Notes: I had originally planned for Harry (mentioned in Chapter Three) to be the character in this chapter, but after having such a tough time coming up for a story for him, I decided to do a whole different character.

Enjoy.

* * *

_Mark Franklin_

_Chicago, Illinois_

_Monday, November 7__th__ 2017, 9:01 P.M._

* * *

He was nervous. That much was apparent, especially with the long columns of sweat that were dripping down his face and by the way his glasses kept fogging up due to perspiration. He was sitting in the small square room, the only company being his reflection in the large mirror in front of him.

How could this happen to HIM? Him, thirty-five-year-old Mark Jeremiah Franklin, graduate of Yale, undergraduate of Dartmouth, professor of physics at the University of Chicago and preparing for a teaching gig at Oxford in England. Him, who had never been in trouble for anything in his life. Him who he deemed perfect in the human sense.

And now he was being pulled over and taken into custody- and by whom?

The police?

Nope.

The _state_ police?

No way.

The F.B.I.

That's right.

The Federal Bureau of fucking Investigations had taken him here.

He ran his fingers through his long greasy black hair, his clean-shaven face dripping from the sweat. He took his rectangular-shaped glasses off of his short nose, his beady brown eyes red and strained with frustration, and wiped the lenses on his black pinstripe tie. He eyed the cup on the table, the water swimming around the perimeter, but he refused to take it for himself. One rule he had always heard of: Never take anything left out in front of you.

The door finally opened. He sat straight, his nerves shooting up even further.

Two agents stepped into the room, closing the door behind them. Both were tall, though the man was taller, and they both looked well-built and pretty thin. Both wore black suits with white button-down shirts and black ties and wore dark glasses. One had a black hat on his head, which he took off the minute he walked in the room. He stood with his back against the wall while his partner, a woman with her brunette hair tied back in a bun, sat in the seat opposite the doctor.

He gulped. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small black tape recorder and placed it on the desk, closer towards him. She hit the play button and removed her dark glasses so that she could see her misty blue eyes.

"Today is Monday, November seventh, year two thousand and ten. Time is now nine-oh-five." She repeated this robotically, as though it were something she had done a million times before. "This is the meeting with Doctor Mark Jeremiah Franklin, professor of physics at the University of Chicago-"

"I'm being transferred to Oxford," he interjected the correction. They paid it no mind.

"This interview is being conducted by myself, Agent Eliza Fairfield," the woman continued, "and my partner, Agent John Maroni, both of the Federal Bureau of Investigations."

Maroni stayed in the back of the room, never once removing his glasses. Franklin tried not to look at him; at six foot two, he was incredibly intimidating. Add in the straight face and the broad shoulders and he was a man that would not want to be met in a dark alleyway in the middle of the night. He was somewhat simple to read, at least, from the physicist's point of view, but there was something about him that just stopped people from trying.

Fairfield was a different matter. Franklin could not read her even if he tried to. The woman was an open mystery book right before him, a genre he had never been particularly gifted with save for experiments. Her eyes were piercing and completely unreadable, and if she had any emotions at all, they were all kept in check behind her beautiful face. Franklin had to wonder how a woman like her had ended up with a gig like this.

"Could you state your name for the record?" she said next.

Franklin frowned. "But you just said my name-"

"State your name for the record, sir." Her tone was absolutely serious, and left no room for nonsense.

He gulped.

"Doctor Mark Jeremiah Franklin," he said, as clearly as he could.

"And what exactly do you do, Dr. Franklin?"

"I teach physics and advanced chemistry at the University of Chicago. I am also performing experiments in high levels of electric current- which is government-funded, I might add, and falls perfectly within established protocols."

He was scared to death by now, and they both knew it. She gave him a small smile that really was not a smile, just an attempt to put him at ease, but it was forced and he could tell.

"Dr. Franklin, I'll tell you right now that you're not in trouble for anything. You have done nothing wrong." The smile, as small as it was, left, and her seriousness returned. "On the contrary, we need your help."

"My help?" Franklin leaned forward, his earlier fear dissipating as curiosity took over. Sure, his research at the university was government-financed, and yes, he did check in with his bosses in Washington at least once a month, but that was the extent of it. He was under the belief that his research was never going to be used for anything other than scientific purposes; clearly, he had misunderstood.

Fairfield turned to Maroni, who stepped forward and delivered to her a book, thick and hard-covered. He stepped back and resumed the exact position he had been in as if he had never moved. Fairfield slid the book over to the doctor, with the title facing upwards and in clear, shining print for him to read without glasses.

The title was _Activating Evolution__._

"Are you familiar with this text, doctor?" she asked him.

"Of course," Franklin answered immediately. "Everyone in my graduating class had to read it for research."

"So you're already familiar with Chandra Suresh's works?"

"Absolutely. I walked into one of his son's lectures, a decade or so ago, he was talking about the exact same thing. Apple doesn't really fall far from the tree."

"You two had a meeting soon after, correct?"

He frowned. "Did you have me followed?"

"One of our agents in the field was keeping an eye on him for...obvious reasons. He was being monitored to make sure he wasn't doing anything..._rash_, let's say."

"I'm sure." The resentment was evident in Franklin's voice; one they immediately picked up on.

"Continue, doctor," Fairfield said in an annoyed voice.

"We met for coffee and discussed our experiments, yes. He explained his research thoroughly to me, though from what he was telling me I could clearly see he was being ridiculous. His research was completely straight-jacketed by the scientific method."

"What do you mean?"

"Are either of you familiar with the scientific method?"

They were not. He allowed himself a smug grin; something he knew that they did not. A small victory, but a deserving one, in his mind.

"The scientific method are the rules scientists abide by for any experiments we do. Basically, you ask a question. Then you develop a hypothesis based off of information and resources already at your disposal. Then you perform the experiment, during which you take careful, detailed notes and observations on any developments- or lack thereof- you notice. When done, you analyze your information and draw your conclusion, or new hypothesis. From this, you can publish your results, and also come up with new experiments stemming off from your new hypothesis, therefore repeating the entire process all over again. The scientific method is, in essence, our Golden Rule of science."

"I see," said Fairfield, keeping up with his explanation fairly well. Beauty and brains; definitely a turn on. "So why was Dr. Suresh's works 'straight-jacketed', then?"

"Because it was incomplete. He had a hypothesis and a conclusion of sorts, but no proof to back up his conclusion. In the science world, information is our water supply; we drink it dry and constantly need more of it. He had no information to present to me, apart from the incomplete research his father had already started. So I wrote it off as just wishful thinking on his part and I haven't debated it since."

"You never considered the possibility that he might be telling the truth?"

Franklin laughed, a real loud one, no longer nervous. He felt in his own element here, stuff he knew cold, stuff he had digested with every science class he had taken from first grade up. Nervousness was erased by familiarity. And the question she had just asked was utterly preposterous.

"Ms. Fairfield, I'm a physicist," he told her. "I study mass, energy, force, why things do what they do when they do them. Protons, electrons, neutrons, these are my area of expertise. Electric currents, they're my playing field. Argon lasers, they are my play toys. Now, if you want me to tell you how a molecule interacts, how they form and what they do for our bodies, then I will write you a novel. But if you want me to tell you how a human's molecular structure can change to the point where they can _fly_, then you're asking in the wrong field. I don't believe in human's becoming super humans. Dr. Suresh is your man for that. Now, are we done here, or are you going to continue asking me ridiculous questions?"

Both agents just stared at him, but he was not intimidated anymore; he was beyond that now. He was angry, and he thought it ridiculous that they were asking him about _this_, of all things. He had written a book defying Suresh, for God's sakes! He abolished the man's theory of evolution, he did not confirm it. Why was he even here? Surely they must know this?

Fairfield did not even budge. She just carefully brought the book back behind the table and placed it on the floor. Then she leaned back across the table again, folding her hands together.

"Just one more question, Dr. Franklin," she said. "Do you know a man by the name of Sylar?"

He thought for a minute, trying to remember if that name had ever been spoken to him before. It had not. He shook his head.

"Doesn't ring any bells," he told her.

"He was a serial killer ten years ago," she explained to him. "Cut off the tops of heads so neatly that there were no signs of razor marks of any kind, and then he would steal their brains."

"Oh, that's right," he remembered. "I read something about that in the paper. They kept talking about the victims they found, how horrifying the crime scenes were."

"If they thought that was bad," she took a news article out of her pocket and slid it towards him, "they haven't seen this."

Franklin opened the article and instantly recoiled in horror. The picture was of a man disfigured and mutilated to the point of nonrecognition; it looked more mess than man. The top of his head was gone, in an even way that looked almost photo-shopped, it was so unbelievable. His chest was sliced right down the middle, also in a neat way, though this reminded him more of a dissection than a murder. His organs were still inside; he could see stomach, intestine, lungs, the works, so why the chest was opened was just baffling. There was a pool beneath him, and at first, because the picture was in black and white he allowed himself to believe water or something. Then he knew better. The man's face was contorted in pain; he must have felt every ounce of pain before he had died.

"My God..." he gasped out, pushing the article away.

"Police say his brain was removed and all of his nerves were missing," Fairfield told him, folding it up and putting it in her pocket. "They're baffled; most of them haven't been on the force for ten years, wouldn't remember those crimes. We, however, do."

"And so where do I fit into all this?" It was the obvious question that should have been asked at the very beginning of the whole thing, but he was asking now.

Maroni shifted for the first time since he had delivered the book. Fairfield did not change expression, but Franklin could sense something had changed. He had a feeling he was going to be very sorry he had asked in a few short minutes.

"We need your help," she told him. "We need your help finding people with these special abilities and we need you to keep them safe. If Sylar has indeed returned, he's not going to stop until he's found them all and killed them. We didn't believe in this before, but we do now, and we're going to make sure it never happens again."

"Wait a minute," Franklin protested, "I'm supposed to be in Oxford tomorrow. I start my new teaching job there the morning after. I've been planning this for months, I can't cancel on it now!"

"It's already done," the agent told him. "We called your office and told them you were on indefinite leave of absence for the time being."

Numbness flooded his body like a tidal wave. His mouth dropped open, but as hard as he tried he could not get any words to come out his mouth. This could not be happening; not to HIM, of all people.

"You can't do this," he finally said, his voice a dangerous whisper.

"I already have," she replied back, her voice never changing.

The finality there was just too stunning. His trip, his dreams, everything he had worked so hard for these last few years...all of it, gone, in the course of a single phone call. How this could happen to him of all people was a thought he could only shudder to think about. There were so many things he wanted to say- to scream, to cry, to throw his chair against the wall.

The only thing he could say was a feeble "Why me?"

"Because right now, you're probably the only person on the face of the earth who even remembers Mohinder Suresh's name, let alone his research," Fairfield said, "and that's a start-"

"But I don't even BELIEVE in this stuff!" the doctor exclaimed, slamming his fist down on the table. "It's biologically impossible for someone to regenerate their bodies or turn invisible or any of that! It's a load of bullshit!"

The two agents looked at each other for the briefest of moments. Fairfield looked back at him, and Franklin could almost see the coy look that was dancing in her eyes, one that was in the students that always gave him the most grief.

"Refresh my memory, Doctor," she said. "Doesn't this scientific method call for gathering and analyzing evidence before drawing a conclusion?"

"Yes. Exactly," he agreed, glad that they were still paying attention.

"So then how do you know that his research is phony?"

There was only silence. Franklin's mouth was wide open with no sound at all coming out his mouth. His own research had just been used to cock block himself; he'd been Scooby-Doo'ed in his own field of expertise. Still, for people to have special abilities? It just did not make sense.

"I just...can't believe it's true," he said. "I mean...it's just so unreal..."

And here, for the first time, Fairfield actually smiled. A sad smile, but a smile.

"You'd be saving the world," she told him. "Making it safer. These people deserve to have a better life than the one Sylar's got in store for them."

"But I'm a physicist," he reminded her.

"Time to brush up on your biology, then. These people need you."

Needed him. He had gone through the world thinking the only way people needed him would be through whatever research he discovered on electric currents, if anyone ever would. Never would he dream that a day would come where he would have to prove the unprovable. It felt like a dream, and a bad one at that.

And yet...at the same time, part of his was excited at the idea. This was, after all, why he had become a scientist, was it not? To go out and explore what man had never explored before, to study it and better understand it? And if by some miracle these agents were right in their way of thinking, was it not an opportunity worth thinking? Suresh may have been a complete lunatic, but he HAD put a lot of thought into what he had presented, and that had to have stemmed from something, had it not? Maybe it was worth looking into.

As much as he wanted this job, the opportunity was too intriguing to pass up.

"Alright," he submitted. "Alright, fine, I'll do it."

"Thank you, Doctor," Fairfield said, and she truly did seem grateful to him. "You won't be alone. Agent Maroni and myself will accompany you. We'll be monitoring the activity and make the arrest when we find Sylar."

It sounded more like they were keeping tabs on him than they were really helping. But he was grateful for the company, at any rate. It was better than doing this alone.

"Where do we start?"

"New York. Where the victim was found. There's the chance Sylar's staking his claim there. We leave in six hours."

"That soon?"

"Trust me, doctor," the female agent's smile was gone, and her seriousness was returned as if nothing had happened. "The sooner we leave, the better it is."

--

"Back so soon?"

Soapy looked up from his magazine article as Sylar walked into their cozy little "home". It was the end of the man's first day back into the world. Sylar had a wide, happy grin on his face that reminded the old man of an excited monkey.

"I take it you were successful?" he asked.

"Very," the man answered.

He reached out his hand and a flower that had been in a vase by the bed instantly froze up, as though the temperature had dropped to fifty below zero, and shattered. Soapy whistled.

"Damn, that's impressive," he said.

Sylar just smiled.

"So what you gonna do now?"

"What do you mean?" the former- now current- murderer asked, looking even more sinister as he spoke. "I'm just getting started..."

* * *

And that's the main cast.

Next chapter gets into the real stuff.

Quick note: I'm not a scientist, I'm not so good with this stuff. I researched as best I could, but I apologize if I screwed anything up.

I know it's been forever since I updated, but show me some love? Let me know people are still interested? Please?

Thank you.

Later.


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